Triskal. A lotus blue more rare and dear than gold so fresh and frail that summer's breeze might seem a wyrm's bad breath so foul it groweth mould - Of such a bloom I can but nightly dream. For three mad weeks I ran from coast to coast, in constant chase by farmers' cats and wives, and scurvy ghouls and goblin broods who roast- ed rodents chew upon with salt and chives. The whispered words, the hoary sages' tales said naught but "lotus blue? thou jesteth, mouse!" so weary roads and beaten mountain trails have been my lonesome, cold and roofless house. But smile now, gentle forlorn-looking friends, to you a trusty rodent pal attends! Grig. Goodly rat, are you in tedious sonneteering way, saying that you have no useful things to say, no clue hereby to guide and aid our quest, and shall be but perfumed and pantalooned a pest? Triskal. Indeed, I say that all but so much more! I am a chief of twenty rolling stunts, and thirty skills allowed to me by law. Mayhap you've heard my famous forty grunts? My fifty nifty ways of travel-guise or sixty summons of the woodchuck mice? Without the use of sleight-of-hand or lies, I can a man of house and gold entice. But most important still I needst must add I've made to meet a man of learning high. He curses all and some do say he's mad, for flowers though, there be no other guy. Now let us to the Drinking Bandit's Inn, to seek a boon of Ashab abu-Bin. Grig. Gudo, my bardic wisdom speaks against the rat. We have no need for whiskered chit or chat. Are we to truck in random rumour, hearsays vague, and quickly catch our deaths by bubonic plague? Sir Bastien. Were Triskal here a common rat of smelly alleys, I'd send my sword t'ward him in sweeping rallies, and give his rodent hide a proper tanning for sporting with our quest and planning. But standeth he upon two feet, and speaketh well, so much is meet. Would you, a famed and travelled bard, Speak of priggish thoughts so poorly starred? Grig [incensed but aloof]. A prig? A prig? The famed Sir Grig? Why, that's slander weaker than a twig. I mark my cautious candour gone unheeded, 'tis now your fault alone that we be plague-impeded. Sir Bastien [laughing good-naturedly]. Smooth thy ruffled feathers, o' minstrel prince, you'll forgive me if I faileth now and then to mince my words so fine they'd couch a queenly bottom like silken down from nestlings plucked in autumn. So welcome then, good comrade mouse Forgive my friend, Sir Loudmouth Louse, but they who maketh cheer with smiling eyes, may harbour hearts of lurking lies... Thus do I keep his frank and honest company, even though I've heard him play an awful tympani in queer approximation of the Yakonen waltz. What say you, Triskal, can you overlook his faults? Grig. [makes choking noises, attempts an indignant stanza, but is too apoplectic with rage to be coherent] copyright 1997 Gerald Tan & Nigel Poh Click on the dragon to proceed with the tale... ... the dagger to go to the previous page ... and the snoozing gnome to return to the Home Page. Currently playing "On the Banks of the Allan Water".